


Vicarious

by DoubleBit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Knifeplay, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleBit/pseuds/DoubleBit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay takes the ultimate power trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vicarious

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this and then realized there have been a ton of food-related Thramsay fics popping up lately. Perhaps we all need to eat some cake.

Ramsay hesitates only for a second before tucking a few strands of coarse, greasy hair behind his pet’s ear. Reek looks almost beautiful when he sleeps – objectively beautiful, Ramsay thinks, in a way that anybody could see, which is something but is also so… _plain_. Lady Harlaw might just recognize him like this, his eyelashes fluttering, lips parted just slightly enough that that absolute boneyard of a mouth isn’t apparent. In a few moments – whenever Ramsay wants it, really – those cracked lips will contort around the rotting teeth and everything will be just as he’d left it. Like with most things, he thinks, it’s only the contrast that makes it interesting.

Judging by the little curve at the corner of Reek’s mouth, his dreaming has taken him somewhere outside this place, outside Ramsay’s reach, and so Ramsay wakes him with a sharp tug of the hair.

He leans in close, his lips brushing his pet’s ear.

“Good morning, my Reek.”

He feels the responding shiver, the dry-throated, “Good morning, my lord.”

Ramsay can see it, of course, that Reek doesn’t _actually_ think it’s a good morning, but he supposes that, in time, Reek won’t even dream of waking up anywhere but here. Reek’s eyes light briefly on the cross before meeting Ramsay’s and then flicking down to his master’s mouth. (Ramsay has noticed that Reek seems to think his mouth is the safest place to look.) Reek hasn’t been up on the cross in some time now, though naturally it’s still here in the room with him, looming there and stained with streaks of red. Ramsay looks at it and licks his lips, then back to Reek.

“Sit up. I brought you breakfast.”

He feels a swell of generosity as he slides Reek a plate of eggs and bacon and warm cakes, and enjoys watching his pet’s expression flow from longing to happiness to fear. There’s a lot going on behind those sunken blue eyes that Ramsay knows he’s glad not to know, but he also hopes that Reek never truly masters his face.

“Is today a special day?” Reek asks carefully.

“Every day is a special day,” answers Ramsay cynically and without thinking. “But no, today is no more special than any other day. It’ll be just like all the others, I expect.”

Reek reaches for the cake and snatches it from the plate and into his mouth so quickly that Ramsay laughs, a high sound which is visibly painful to both of them.

“It’s not going to run away.”

Reek looks doubtfully at the plate, then at Ramsay.

“Eat, pet.”

Ramsay can tell from watching him eat that Reek is going to get a stomach-ache later, a pleasing if unintended side-effect of this treat. He thinks briefly about his own breakfast and how dull it had tasted and for a moment wishes he found anything at the Dreadfort quite as exciting as Reek finds some simple food. He deliberately waits until Reek’s cheeks are packed with egg to ask,

“Which of us would you rather be, given the choice?”

“Pardon, my lord?”

“I’ve just had an idea for a game! Me or you: who would you rather be?”

And Ramsay loves watching the gears turn inside poor Reek’s broken-down brain as he tries to sort out which answer will least-likely result in a beating. After several seconds though, he begins to feel a heat rising inside his chest.

“Oh _really_ , you miserable creature, is this such a _difficult_ question?” He grabs Reek’s hand from the plate and yanks it until it’s pressed into his crotch. “Have you forgotten what it’s like to be a man so soon?”

He releases his grip on Reek’s wrist and swats it away.

“No, I just… I-"

Ramsay is surprised – and gratified – to see tears welling up in Reek’s eyes.

“How about I help you decide?”

“Okay,” says Reek helplessly. He looks down at his hands and Ramsay can tell he’s deciding which of his remaining fingers he would least hate to lose.

Ramsay stands abruptly and offers a hand down to Reek, who flinches. Ramsay remembers another time when he offered his hand down to another man, who took it like he was entitled. Now that same set of eyes clenches closed whenever he makes a sudden movement.

“Take my hand, Reek.”

He’s so light now, all skin and bones and hollow, that when Ramsay pulls him upward they collide into one another and Reek nearly falls back down.

Ramsay throws himself manically against the cross with his limbs up and his wrists bent and he clowns a grotesque, anguished face; it cracks into that wicked smile though, and he says, “Tie me up!”

Reek blinks owlishly at him and cocks his head, and Ramsay mimics the movement.

“I’m not going to torture _myself_ , Reek. I want you to bind my wrists.”

Reek slowly shuffles to the cross and peers into Ramsay’s eyes for as long as he dares before he begins affixing the leather straps that dangle from the thing.

“I know you’ll find the knots troublesome, what with the-” Ramsay wiggles his ten fingers, “but do make them tight enough that I can’t get out. If I’m able to get out, the game will be ruined and I’ll have to think of some other way to amuse myself.”

Reek nods solemnly and begins wrapping Ramsay’s wrists.

“Tighter.”

He sighs and starts over again.

“You know,” says Ramsay, “I can’t even guess how many people have bled out on this ancient thing.”

Reek yanks hard on the strap and Ramsay can feel pins and needles in his hand.

“My father caught me playing on it once when I was a child.” Ramsay clucks his tongue and feels – for once – glad that Lord Bolton cannot see what he's doing at the moment. “He took me off it and beat me until I couldn’t see straight.”

Reek moves to Ramsay’s other side and says nothing.

Ramsay drops his chin to his chest and does an imitation of his father’s voice: “This room is not for play.” He laughs shrilly. “This room is _meant_ for play, don’t you think?”

Reek bites his lip in concentration, but nods again. He kneels and moves Ramsay’s feet to the platforms at the base of the cross and then moves away, squinting at Ramsay and awaiting further instructions.

Reek jumps as Ramsay suddenly surges forward, straining against the straps. Ramsay’s shoulders are already burning and he can hear his pulse, his breath quickening. He feels dizzy, almost drunk. _Are you sure about this?_ He looks at Reek, whose eyes are fixed on Ramsay’s lips, whose maimed hands are twisting in and out of one another. Ramsay’s never been so sure about anything.

“This really is uncomfortable,” he says with a smirk. “And I thought you were just being a woman about it.”

Reek looks at the floor. “What comes next, my lord?”

“Does it help you to decide, seeing me tied up like this?”

“Not really.”

Ramsay rolls his eyes. “You _are_ pitiful, aren’t you? Well then, come here.”

Reek shuffles forward a few steps.

“Closer, my pet,” says Ramsay, speaking in that smooth coo that he uses when Reek is being mistrusting. For a second – just a fleeting moment – Ramsay is seized with a terror that Reek might prove him wrong. That Theon Greyjoy might show himself just long enough to convince Reek to escape. He feels the adrenaline wash over him and then away as Reek takes another step closer, and he can feel that his pet’s breathing is almost panicked.

“Please,” says Reek, “Let me untie you now?”

Ramsay shakes his head. “But we’re not done yet. You still haven’t told me whether you’d trade places if you could. Reach into my right pocket.”

He closes his eyes as Reek obeys, feels his pet’s fingers groping along his thigh until they find what they’re looking for. He opens them and watches Reek’s face carefully as he unsheathes the flaying knife. It’s clean and bright, and Ramsay just sharpened it this morning. He expects Reek to touch the blade, but instead he holds the thing as far from himself as he can, his hands trembling. He’s barely able to look at it.

“You recognize that, so I don’t see any need to tell you what to do with it.”

Reek’s gaze passes from the knife to Ramsay’s eyes and then back to the knife. He reaches gingerly toward Ramsay’s jerkin and opens it slowly. Ramsay can feel Reek’s breath, hot and shallow and acrid against his chest, and he feels his blood rising and moving south.

“Go on then. Do whatever you want.”

Reek’s eyes meet with his and this time Ramsay holds them there.

“I can’t.”

Ramsay arches his head, exposing the full length of his pale throat.

“Put your fingers here, under the left side of my jaw.”

He notes with pleasure that the idea of touching him makes Reek go a shade whiter. The three fingers of Reek’s right hand feel damp as they press against Ramsay’s jugular.

“Can you feel that?”

“Your heartbeat,” says Reek softly, as though he hadn’t expected to find one.

“You’d only have to knick that spot and I’d be dead.”

Ramsay closes his eyes tightly, keeps his head so far back it aches. He can’t stifle a gasp when he feels Reek’s fingers replaced by his lips, dry and soft and followed immediately by a shaky grip on the back of his neck, tangling in his hair.

“Gods be damned, Reek!” he says, and it sounds more choked than he would’ve liked. “I gave you a knife, so use it or I swear that I won’t leave a single inch of you without a bruise!”

Reek’s hand is still trembling as he presses the edge of the blade into Ramsay’s flesh and Ramsay damns _himself_ for letting out a deep moan. When he looks down, it’s hardly more than a paper-cut and Reek’s quivering has taken over his whole body.

“Doesn’t that feel better?”

“Please don’t make me do this.”

Ramsay can feel his patience slipping rapidly.

“Reek, you’re being an insufferable coward. Be glad I’m not telling you to do this to someone _else_ – and mind that I could just as easily still have someone brought up from the dungeons for you.”

Reek takes a deep breath to steady himself, a sound which Ramsay finds almost endearing.

The sting is a little greater this time, the cut a little clumsier.

“Good. That’s more like it.”

Reek looks up at him, bewildered.

“If you’re wondering how I manage to do the things I do, it takes dexterity. And a lot of practice.”

Ramsay’s smile widens as Reek makes a third incision; this one is deeper and immediately wells with blood. Ramsay watches it thicken and run.

“I think you’re finally starting to do me justice.”

“My lord, I- please let me stop. I could never be you; I’d rather just be Reek.”

Ramsay sighs theatrically. “Very well.”

Reek moves to undo the restraints, but Ramsay interrupts him.

“Not quite yet.”

Reek’s shoulders stoop slightly as he asks, “How else may I please my lord?”

A rank smile curls the corner of Ramsay’s lips.

“You can clean up this mess, starting with the knife.”

Reek makes as though to wipe the blade on his filthy tunic, but Ramsay makes a hissing sound.

_“With your mouth.”_

Reek keeps his eyes on Ramsay’s as he runs the knife delicately across his tongue, first one way and then then other. He lips and teeth are messy with red and Ramsay can feel his cock pressing against his breeches.

“Now the rest of it.”

Reek sheaths the knife, clearly relieved to be done with it, and moves to slip it back into Ramsay’s pocket. His hand lingers there, fingers pressed against the inside of his master’s thigh. The lines of blood on Ramsay’s chest begin to run, and Ramsay raises an eyebrow expectantly. Reek swallows and inhales deeply before pressing his tongue to Ramsay’s skin. Almost immediately he pulls back and presses the back of his hand to his lips. He turns away and Ramsay can see he shoulders lurching forward and back.

“I knew I shouldn’t have wasted that breakfast on you,” he says. “If you throw up, I will see to it you don’t eat again this week.”

It’s clear from Reek’s expression that he had just managed to stop the vomit at his teeth, and Ramsay feels a little pulse of pride when his pet swallows it back down.

“Yes, my lord.”

Reek glances at Ramsay’s chest and then his face. Gently, he turns his master’s cheek to one side and begins to suck just behind his ear. Ramsay’s eyes roll back; and gods, but who knew that spot could make his knees give out so that for a moment all his weight is hung from the straps on his wrists and he inhales sharply. Reek’s hand runs over Ramsay’s chest, his jagged nails dragging over Ramsay’s stomach and then down past his waist band.

_“Laces,”_ breathes Ramsay.

“Done,” says Reek, and Ramsay feels to cool air hit his thighs as his trousers slip to his knees.

Reek steps back a pace and Ramsay’s pulls after him. 

“Reek…”

Reek tilts his head sideways as though he is just now seeing Ramsay for the first time, and for a second – just a flash, really – Ramsay actually feels _self-conscious_ and then in turn feels his skin crawl. But before he can say anything, Reek has closed the distance between them once more and is sucking a bruise into Ramsay’s throat.

“N-no marks above the collar,” Ramsay reminds, as he reminds _himself_ that he’s delusional if he thinks that every man in the Dreadfort doesn’t already know what kinds of things he gets up to with his pet.

Reek hums an acknowledgment against Ramsay’s skin, his left hand moving leisurely around Ramsay’s cock. He passes the fingers of his right hand along the lines left by the knife and stares at them for a moment before drawing them across Ramsay’s face in a wet, red “X.” He can read the look in Ramsay’s eyes and slips his fingers dutifully between his lips until they are clean again.

Ramsay can feel a film of sweat starting to cling to his body, stinging between his skin and the leather straps. Reek kneels, and when he suddenly takes Ramsay’s entire length in his mouth, Ramsay’s head starts to reel. His hands are numb, and waves of pain wash over his shoulders and his back, but when he looks down, Reek looks back up at him, face smeared with gore and flecks of red clinging to his hair. The sight alone is enough to trip him over the edge.

“Stop,” he moans, surprised by the softness of his own voice. Then firmer, willing himself to shout, _“Reek, stop!”_

Reek sits back on his haunches.

“Have I done something wrong, my lord?”

“No.” He hangs his head to look at his pet. “Nothing wrong. But I’m not ready to be finished yet. I want you…” He bites his lip. He’s about to say, _I want you to make me beg._ But he can’t. He won’t. So he just leaves his words hanging there unfinished.

Reek raises an eyebrow - just slightly enough that Ramsay can’t quite accuse him of being impertinent – and returns his mouth to his master’s cock, taking it deep and with wet, deliberately obscene noises. He presses his hand into the space between his own legs. Ramsay knows that – short of flaying – there is nothing his Reek loathes more than being made to touch his own body; that he’s just done it without being told stirs in Ramsay a mixture of lust and apprehension. As always though, the former wins out.

He comes with a strangled sound that is all but drowned out by the fearsome rending of the cross as his knees give way and he lurches against it. When he opens his eyes, Reek is already untying his arms. Ramsay prepares himself to fall forward – it’s what everyone does who’s been on the thing - but when he does fall, Reek is already there, struggling to lower his master gently onto the floor.

“It will be a few minutes before you can walk,” says Reek. His eyes are wide with concern, but his face is covered from hair to chin with Ramsay’s blood and seed and Ramsay starts laughing until his sides ache. He props himself up on his elbows and says, 

“You’re lucky I can’t move. I’ve half a mind to beat you senseless for making such short work of it.” 

Reek flinches as Ramsay grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him in until Ramsay’s lips brush against his cheek. Ramsay’s voice is a husky whisper as he adds, “And you know that I _could_ , don’t you? That all I’d have to do is tell you to stay until I’ve recovered my strength, and then I’d beat you absolutely bloody.”

He runs his tongue along Reek’s jaw and across his mouth, tasting the salt and copper there until Reek opens his mouth and Ramsay holds him fast until they are both gasping for air.

He leaves Reek with the cold plate of breakfast, but with no real way to clean himself. Passing through the corridors, he receives strange looks from everyone he passes and it isn’t until he reaches his chambers that he looks in a mirror and realizes his face is nearly as gruesome as Reek’s. He tucks a few strands of hair behind his ear. Ramsay thinks he might wait until night to wash himself up, but the eyes looking back at him are most definitely his father's, so he sighs and goes to his basin.


End file.
